Savage
by Garbage and City Lights
Summary: Yet another Jack fic... this one is a monologue from his point of view. Yeah, PG for raw emotion, implications of violence, and minor language (I think.) This takes place on a plane on the way back to England--oh, the angsty thoughts! Haah, I love my Jack


I feel like I'm never going to be clean again.  
  
True, they made me shower before we left the naval base, but I still feel the evil. It's caked on like the layers of dirt, sticky and foul and stinking. What happened on that island was evil, pure and simple. And I--  
  
And I--  
  
Look at the ocean. It's so breathtaking from above, but when it's the only thing between you and home... I'm quite sure I'll never visit the beach again. From what I was told, we spent a year and 2 weeks on that godforsaken rock. Amazing. So much happened in so little a time. I even missed my 14th birthday. Hm, I wonder if it passed while I was betraying and corrupting and hurting? Well, no one back home was celebrating my birthday. Another interesting piece of information I picked up was that no one survived.  
Yes, everyone, everything was wiped out by the bomb. It's just now being populated again. It would really figure. The irony of it all... we were being moved to safety to escape the nuclear war when that idiot pilot crashed. Then the danger was no longer the Reds but ourselves. We went from the possibility of going to heaven to the very pits of hell.  
  
No one will look at me. Everyone's staring out the window or down at their feet, but never at me. They all know it was my fault.  
  
There. I said it. My fault. My fault. I feel awful. For once in my life I wasn't a leader and I couldn't handle it. I crumbled. I snapped.  
  
I killed.  
  
Two are dead now to pay for my idiocy and lack of self-control. No, I know the truth--nothing can make up for what I did. Maybe I didn't kill alone, but I induced the violence. It was my own inhumanity that brought on the massacre. _I _provoked it, _I _killed, and it's because of me that Simon isn't here right now.  
  
I liked Simon. I really did. He was a weaker one, a boy who was probably supposed to die young, but he could always be counted on to hit the highest notes. Simon was loyal and kind and true and good--everything I could never be. I didn't know. Oh, I swear to God I didn't know. What was he doing, so dirty and crawling around on the ground in the dark? Didn't he know we'd be scared and wild and savage with the thunder and the lightning oh God oh God oh--  
  
Lord, I'm crying. I promised myself I wouldn't cry, not after the scene Ralph made on the beach. I'm going to make up for my weakness on the island and be strong, be a man. So why are my eyes wet? I'm not going to cry, no, not here, not now... Well, if I'm quiet, I guess no one will notice.  
  
Oh, God. Ralph noticed. I was hoping he wouldn't, but he did. No worries; he didn't think twice about it. He doesn't care. Nobody cares. Goodness, why should they? I don't deserve human emotions, either felt myself or felt towards me; sympathy being one of them. The moment I began hunting, the moment I picked up that blasted spear, I lost control. I became an animal. But it was so wonderful to be behind that paint. No one could see me behind that; I was free from their accusing eyes. I was _chief_. Just when I've  
convinced myself that I never want to see another island for as long as I live, I want to go back. I want to go back to that damnable rock and put on my mask and hunt again. But I can't.  
  
Look, there's land. I never thought I'd see land other than that island. How far now, I wonder? How much longer must I sit here in this horrid silence? I can hardly even hear them breathe. No one wants to talk to me because they can still see the blood on my hands. It's been washed from the skin, but not from the soul. It's like that old bird in Shakespeare with the spot on her hand--"Out, damn spot!"--but there isn't any spot so the spot won't go away and it's because she's insane and _my _spot won't go away because _I'm _insane oh God oh--  
  
I must keep control. I must stay calm. I'll sit here and grip the arms of my chair 'til my fingers fall off, if that's what it takes. I won't cry again; dear God, I could never cry again in front of all of them. But one time--one time I couldn't hold it back. Right after we--right after Simon died. I turned and, when nobody was looking, ran into the trees. I couldn't bear to look at the body. I fled, fled blindly until I couldn't force my legs to move any longer. Then, there in the darkness of the trees, I cried. I cried for me, for Simon, for all of us--because we have to live with what we did.  



End file.
